


Catbread Undead

by der_tanzer



Series: Catbread [32]
Category: Riptide (TV)
Genre: Crack, M/M, Zombie Animal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-01
Updated: 2010-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-13 00:39:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/der_tanzer/pseuds/der_tanzer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murray finds a critter in the basement. Quinlan gets rid of it. Repeat as needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catbread Undead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oddmonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddmonster/gifts).



> **Warning in big bold letters: this is a zombie wild animal (not cat) fic. Expect standard zombie problems and solutions. If you don't know what that means, proceed with caution.**

"What do you mean, you don't know what it is?" Quinlan said. He'd been at the store all day and now he just wanted to put his feet up and have Murray feed him. Instead he was getting static about something in the basement.

"I mean, I don't know what it is. I was down there getting a chicken from the chest freezer and I heard a weird scratching sound."

"A sound? Kid, that coulda been anything."

"Yeah, but I tracked it down. It's in the little shower stall. It's like a rat, but it's _huge_. Like the size of a cat. Like one of the rats that ate the foreman in that story, _Graveyard Shift_."

"This is why I tell you not to read that stuff. It's probably just a possum that dug through the foundation."

"That doesn't make me feel better. Now we not only have a giant rat in the basement, we have a bad foundation, too."

"I never said it was bad. Just probably has a little hole in it now," he mumbled. But Murray kept standing there, fidgeting with his hands and looking like he was about to start in again about man-eating rats. "Oh, all right. But there'd better be chicken on the table when I get back."

Quinlan flung himself out of his chair and stomped over to the front door to put his shoes back on. All this fuss for a stupid rodent. Or were possums marsupials? He could have asked Murray, but he didn't care that much. Whatever it was, a rake and a burlap bag would take care of it. He stormed out to the garage to get those things and then went around the back of the house to the basement stairs.

Sure enough, there was a possum in the shower, but it wasn't scratching at anything. He was pretty sure it was dead, and that made him wonder what had killed it in the three hours since Murray discovered it there. He put the bag on the shower floor and scrunched it down into an open circle. It slid a little bit as he scraped and raked at the possum, but after a few minutes' effort and a couple of cautious shoves with his toe, he got the poor dead thing inside and tied up the bag. Once it was safely shut in the trash can by the garage, he put the rake away and started hunting for the hole in the foundation.

"Supper's ready, Lieutenant," Murray called down the stairs.

"All right, I'm coming," he growled. He hadn't wanted to get involved in this at all, but since he was now, he wanted to finish it.

Still, Murray had a nice supper on the table and he was hungry. The odds that another possum would find its way in tonight were pretty slim, anyway. He could plug the hole tomorrow.

***

"What do you mean, it's back? You're not even going to let me sit down, are you?"

"No," Murray cried, nearly hysterical. "I was looking for that hole in the foundation, inspecting the retaining wall and everything, and it was in the back corner under the window. But the window's closed!"

"So, that just means you didn't find the hole. Or did you?"

"No!" He was almost hopping now, and Quinlan grabbed his elbow, leading him to the sofa before he could start flailing his arms. "There's no hole, and it's _the same one_! How could it get out of the trash and back in the basement? Especially this fast?"

"Hey, Bozinsky, calm down. It can't be the same one, okay? Either another one got in the same way, or there's a family of 'em down there. Whichever it is, I'll take care of it, okay?"

"But it _is_ the same one," Murray insisted. He was sitting now and letting Quinlan hold him, but his voice was still strident and fearful. "I recognized it by its notched ear and beady little eyes."

"Beady little…Murray, baby, they all have beady eyes. They all look alike, like squirrels and black German shepherds. Not even their mamas can tell 'em apart."

"But they don't all have notched ears. It looked like it got bitten in a fight. Didn't you notice it last night when you were throwing it out?"

He had, but it didn't seem like a good idea to say so. Surely this new one didn't really have a torn ear. Or if it did—well, possums were scrappers. Maybe they did _all_ have notched ears.

"All right, I'll go get rid of it. You have something on for supper? I'm starving."

"Sorry. I was so upset about the possum, I just forgot all about it. I'll order a pizza and it'll be here by the time you're done."

"Okay. You just stay calm and I'll take care of the rodent."

"Marsupial."

"Whatever." He kissed Murray gently, comforting and sweet, and went to the kitchen for a plastic bag. If it was the same one, and it wasn't dead this time, maybe he could suffocate it. He wanted to check the trash, but it had been picked up already. If yesterday's possum hadn't escaped, it was long gone now.

When he got down to the basement, the possum was still in the corner where Murray had said, but it really looked dead to him. He got close enough to see that it had the same notched ear as last night, but decided that it had to be a coincidence. Half the cats he'd ever seen had torn ears—that didn't mean he'd only seen two cats in his life. He made a puddle of the plastic bag the same as he had the burlap and raked the possum into it. Then he tied the bag and put it into a burlap sack for good measure. Mostly because he was half worried the damn thing might wake up and claw through the plastic while he was holding it.

He carried it up the basement stairs and dropped it into the empty can. Now that it was empty, it was deep and the plastic sides were slick. There was no way the fucking thing could climb out. He went inside and washed his hands, telling Murray it was okay. The possum was gone for good. And tomorrow was Saturday, so Nick and Cody would be working at the store. He'd have plenty of time to check the foundation, and maybe the plumbing, just in case.

The pizza came and they ate it out of the box in front of the TV, sharing a six pack of beer while watching _Night of the Living Dead_. It was probably a little too scary for Murray, but two days before Halloween, their options were limited. While he was tidying up in the kitchen, Murray kept a wary eye on the door leading down to the basement and ended up locking it before they went to bed. Not that possums could open doors, but there was no harm in playing it safe. Catloaf, three years old now and a bold little hunter, meowed around the door as if wanting to go down and look for mice. Murray picked him up and carried him to the bedroom, put a scoop of dry food in the bowl by his basket, and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

"I'm sorry I'm being such a wimp about this," he said as he climbed into bed. "I just hate the idea of wild animals in the house. They could have rabies or anything. Catloaf could get hurt."

"He's had his shots. But don't worry, it's gone and there won't be any more."

"I know. It's just so weird, how they looked exactly alike."

Quinlan got into bed and Murray moved into his arms, pressing as close as he could get.

"I never woulda thought a scientist like you would get so worked up over an animal in the basement."

"It's just creepy. I don't want them coming up into the kitchen."

"That ain't gonna happen, I promise. This is all gonna be over tomorrow."

"Okay. So, what about tonight? You know if you don't take my mind off of it, I'll have nightmares and keep you awake."

"You ain't subtle, kid. Not at all," he laughed, turning Murray on his back and kissing him hard.

"I wasn't trying to be."

***

The next morning Murray went down to the basement to get a package of bacon, Quinlan having purchased a whole hog when they bought the big freezer, and there was a possum crouching at the end of the chest. Murray wanted to scream, but it was just a possum. He kept telling himself that. Just a possum. Just a possum. Just a possum. With a notch in its left ear. And it's fur all oily and ruffled up, as if it had been accosted with a leaf rake. Murray stood and stared at it and the possum stared back, if such a thing was possible. They seemed to be sizing each other up, and then the possum advanced. Murray let out a startled squeak and scrambled up on top of the freezer. He hit his head on a shelf and swore quietly, wishing Ted would come rescue him, and then flushing in shame at his position. Treed on a freezer by a possum in his own basement. But not just any possum. He no longer cared what Quinlan said about that. This thing was a freak and he wasn't getting near it.

In fact, he wasn't going anywhere if he couldn't get off this freezer. The possum was sitting in front of it, staring up at him with its teeth slightly bared. That was disturbing. He was trying to remember what they ate and if they were known to attack humans, when a can of spray paint rolled off the shelf and bonked him on the head. Murray grabbed the can with one hand and the back of his head with the other, instantly inspired. He uncapped the can, shook it up, and sprayed the possum in the face.

Great, red paint, he thought, but it worked. The possum backed away, hissing and growling, its eyes closed against the fine mist. When it was halfway across the floor, Murray dropped the can, slid off the freezer and ran for the stairs.

"Where's the bacon, kid?"

"It's back," he panted, slamming the basement door and leaning against it as if something was about to burst through.

"What, the bacon? Where did it go?"

"The possum! It's back! It—it advanced on me!"

"Oh, for chrissakes. I'll go get the bacon if you're gonna be a big scaredy cat about it."

Murray told him to take his gun and sank into a kitchen chair, waiting to see which would emerge victorious. After a couple of minutes, Quinlan came stomping back up the stairs.

"Why in the hell did you spray red paint on a dead possum?"

***

That time Murray emptied one of his plastic storage boxes and Ted shoveled the possum into it and fastened the lid securely before putting it in the trash. He was certain it was dead, but if it wasn't, it would suffocate in that box before it chewed its way out. Either way, Murray would have to believe it was really gone.

They went over the basement together, searching behind every box and under every low shelf for more animals, as well as holes that might let them in. There were no possums, but there was a broken window in the back wall, farthest from the stairs. Quinlan got some short boards and a handful of nails from the garage and covered it securely.

"We'll replace the glass next weekend, but this will keep the wildlife out until then. Happy now?"

"Sure. Thank you, Lieutenant. And I'll clean up the paint on the floor."

"No, I'll take care of that. You have more important things to do, don't you? Some fabulous technological advance that'll let us retire next year?"

"Maybe," he said with a shy smile.

"Better get on it, then."

Murray went up the kitchen stairs while Quinlan took the outside stairs to the garage. He traded his hammer for a brush, some rags and paint-thinner, and went back down to clean up the paint. Down on one knee, scrubbing at the red streaks on the concrete, he wondered what was happening to his brilliant lover's mind. Maybe the kid was working too hard. Between the store and the agency and his own projects, not to mention managing Quinlan's doctor appointments and fussing about his health, he really might have broken. Maybe he was actually getting that animal out of the trash himself and bringing it back down here without remembering. That was a terrifying thought. He shook his head and went on scrubbing with renewed vigor. But something grated in the brush, grinding on the concrete, and he paused to see what it was. Another splash of paint-thinner got the red off and he picked it up carefully, holding it up to the light.

"I'll be damned," he whispered. "It ain't just dead, it's rotting." He decided Murray shouldn't ever know about this and wrapped the tooth in one of the rags. When he was finished, he went up to the garage and put everything away. The paint smeared rags went into a bucket to be washed, but the one with the possum tooth went into the trash outside. He couldn't help checking the clear plastic box, but it was still dead, looking exactly as it had when he put it there. He put the lid back on the trash can and added a concrete block for good measure. Suddenly he felt like Telly Savalas in that _Twilight Zone_ with the Talky Tina doll. Only he wasn't the one that was crazy.

No one mentioned the possum for the rest of the day, and when they went to bed, Quinlan locked the bedroom door. Murray would be able to unlock it if he wanted to leave the room in the night, but it would confuse him and he'd be sure to make noise and wake Ted. The lieutenant went to sleep with his lover in his arms, confident their basement would be marsupial free in the morning.

***

It wasn't.

The bedroom door was still locked when they got up, and when Murray asked why, Quinlan said he must have done it by accident. The lie was accepted without question and Murray went whistling to shower and make breakfast. Quinlan stayed close, not letting the kid out of his sight, and was confident that he hadn't had a chance to mess with the creature in the garbage can. But while they were eating, Catloaf came in and ignored the tantalizing scent of bacon to go stare at the basement door. He meowed and suddenly they both heard a scratching from the other side. Catloaf hissed and something hissed back.

"What the fuck is that?" Quinlan said, almost to himself.

"You know what it is. That thing's never going away, Lieutenant. We have to move. That's all there is to it."

"Get a grip on yourself. We'll just finish our breakfast and then see what's going on. Maybe it's a mouse, or another cat."

"How would a cat get in? You boarded up the window. And mice can't hiss that loud. Unless they're like those _Graveyard Shift_ rats."

Quinlan realized then that they just might have to move to set Murray's mind at ease. He liked this house, but it wasn't worth shattering the kid's sanity.

"Enough with the Stephen King rats. There's a logical explanation for this and you know it. You're a scientist, aren't you? Start putting some of that education to work and just get a grip."

The scratching went on until neither of them could eat anymore. They finally gave up and prepared to do battle against whatever enemy was on the other side of the door. Quinlan got the broom and Murray picked up his cat. But when Ted threw the door open, the possum was just lying there, obviously dead. Catloaf scratched Murray's neck and leapt to the floor, scrambling out of the kitchen so fast he spun out on the corner and skidded into a wall. Quinlan knelt down and examined the possum without touching it. Same notched ear, oily, ruffled fur and now red paint on its face. But there was also another tooth on the floor, and two claws stuck in the door.

"It's coming apart," Murray whispered.

"If I hadn't just heard it scratching, I'd say this thing's been dead a while," Quinlan agreed. "You didn't go get it from the garbage, did you?"

"What? Why would I do that?"

"Never mind. Baby, let's finish this thing off for good. Go get that metal five gallon bucket from the garage. And bring a shovel, too."

"Will you be okay?"

"Yeah, it only pretends to be alive for you. But—um—can you hurry?"

Murray ran out to the garage and was back in two minutes with the shovel and bucket. The possum hadn't moved.

"I'd swear it was alive, though. I mean, it was _just_ hissing at the cat. I _heard_ it."

"It's only alive when I'm looking at it. But it's the same one. You believe me now, right?"

"Yeah, I believe you. Let's just get the fucking thing out of here before it bites us and turns us into vampires or something." He took the shovel and scooped the half-rotted animal into the bucket.

"Jeez, Lieutenant. Its foot came off."

"Yeah, I see that. Like I said, it's been dead a while."

"But how did it get up here? And we _heard_ it scratching. _Catloaf_ heard it."

"I know," he said, picking up the foot with the shovel. Then he got a handful of paper towels and used them to gingerly gather up the teeth and nails. The whole mess went into the bucket and then he didn't quite know what to do. "So, what does science say about disposing of—recurring—possums? I kind of doubt putting it in the garbage is gonna work."

"Well, I don't know about wildlife, but I have heard of this sort of thing in, you know, people."

"You're kidding. What do you do with them?"

"Um—experts don't all agree, but the most common method seems to be decapitation, preferably followed by incineration."

"What the hell?"

"It's a zombie, Lieutenant. I know how that sounds, but you can see for yourself. It's alive, it moves around and hisses at me, but it's clearly dead. Its foot came off and it didn't even bleed. Also, it smells really, really dead."

"So that's your expert scientific analysis? It's a fucking zombie?"

"Right, undead. So, we need to, you know, cut off its head. And probably burn it. Otherwise it's just going to keep coming back."

"That's crazy. You been watching too many movies, kid." He stood up and lifted the bucket with a jerk. It banged against his leg and there was a slight scraping sound from inside. Quinlan looked down reflexively and saw the possum looking up at him. Not lying on its side with its eye open, but actually crouching in the bottom of the bucket with its head back, staring at him. "Holy fucknuts," he shouted and dropped the bucket. It landed upright and he slammed the back of the wide shovel down over it.

'What?" Murray cried. "What happened?"

"It was looking at me. _Fuck_. That thing ain't dead."

"It's undead, Lieutenant. Remember how it wasn't bleeding? It's not alive."

"Shit. You're awfully calm about this, Bozinsky. Living dead ain't science, it's like—magic or something."

"True, but part of being able to think critically and objectively is being able to accept what you see. I'm seeing a dead animal walking around, and while I know those two states of being are supposed to be mutually exclusive, I also know that I'm seeing it, so there must be a way for it to exist. But that doesn't mean I'm ever going to think about it again after this is over."

"I can get behind that. But right now we need this thing out of our house. Grab the shovel and keep it on the bucket."

Quinlan picked up the bucket in both hands and held it away from his body, walking backward while Murray followed, holding the shovel blade firmly in place. But not so firmly that he risked pushing the bucket out of Quinlan's hands. If they spilled the possum in the kitchen, they really would have to move. Murray didn't think he even had to say it.

Quinlan balanced the bucket on one knee while he opened the back door, and then they walked carefully into the yard, setting the bucket down in the center of the lawn.

"Can you be brave and stay here with the—thing?" he asked, gently squeezing the back of Murray's neck. "I need to get some stuff from the garage."

"Yes, sure. Just hurry."

The whole time he was gone, Murray knelt in the grass and kept the shovel blade carefully centered over the mouth of the bucket. He could hear the thing moving around inside, scratching at the metal seams and trying to shove its nose over the rim. Murray kept it in easily enough, but was terribly grateful when Quinlan returned and it dropped dead again. As soon as the shovel was removed it collapsed, possibly in fear of the clam shovel Quinlan had brought. The clam digger fit much better inside the bucket, and the blade was sharp, for slicing through wet sand. Or whatever else needed slicing. Murray closed his eyes until that part was over.

When he looked again, Quinlan was digging a hole over by the fence that separated their yard from Old Dick's. Old Dick was an unpleasant man, prone to throwing things at Catloaf when the kitten ventured onto his property, and Quinlan would have thrown the possum into his yard if he thought the old man would dispose of it properly after. But Old Dick was more likely to find a way to get it into the city's water supply, so he was stuck digging the hole. Figuring that there was no such thing as too deep, he dug down a good three feet while Murray sat and watched the bucket, just to be sure. Even though they were alone, the possum didn't move. It really was dead this time, he was sure.

"All right, kid, bring it over here."

"Are we going to burn it?"

"You bet your ass." He took the bucket and dumped the carcass into the hole. "Help me wad up some papers."

He'd brought a couple days' newspapers and some scrap wood, and together they filled the hole halfway with kindling. Then Quinlan covered all of it with barbecue lighter fluid and tossed in a match.

"This is gonna stink."

"I know, Lieutenant. But we'd better stay and—and make sure."

When the fire burned down, there was nothing really left but bits of bone. Quinlan filled in the hole, replaced the sod carefully, and tamped it all down with his shovel.

"Now that's it, right? It's not a ghost; it can't reincorporate itself, can it?"

"No, not if it's, you know, a zombie. This is the end. Now all we have to do is figure out why undead possums are attracted to our basement."

"Let's not. In fact, let's just throw away this bucket and then never, ever speak of this again."

"Yeah, that's a good idea, too." Murray helped him gather up the tools and they walked back to the garage together, both hoping that next Halloween would be a little less sincere.


End file.
